


Keep Your Hair On

by hexagonad (ideserveyou)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hair, M/M, Nightmare, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideserveyou/pseuds/hexagonad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vince has a terrible nightmare... Will Howard be able to wake him up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Hair On

_All heads turn towards the doorway when Vince enters the room._  
  
 _Vince waves and smiles, but no answering smiles greet him._  
  
 _The crowd surges forwards, hands outstretched._  
  
 _Vince falters on the threshold; turns back to ask Howard what to do._  
  
 _No-one is there._  
  
 _The doorway is gone; in its place there is only a blank wall, lumpy filthy whitewashed brick with Vince’s name written on it over and over, a million times or more, scrawled with faint biro or scratched with a nail, layer after layer.  ‘Vince... Vince... Vince...’_  
  
 _He can hear it in his head, growing louder._  
  
 _It’s coming from the people. From the thousands of identical people. From the thousands of identical, thin, ragged, pale-skinned, crooked-nosed, blue-eyed –_  
  
 _Except that they are not blue-eyed._  
  
 _They don’t really have eyes at all, just dark pits staring back at him with a fathomless hunger as the chant swells louder and louder and the figures shuffle closer and closer._  
  
 _‘Get off me!’ Vince squeals, as first one hand and then another reaches out to touch._  
  
 _Vince can feel them, prodding and poking at him; these aren’t ghosts, they have substance._  
  
 _‘Howard, help! Howard!’_  
  
 _But there is no reply. Vince is on his own._  
  
 _He looks wildly around the room for some way of escape. There is a chink of brightness on the opposite wall that might be daylight, a door or a window maybe; perhaps Howard has gone round the outside of the building and is waiting for him over there._  
  
 _Knees weak, he starts to edge his way through the crowd, his heart pounding in time with their voices: ‘Vince... Vince... Vince...’_  
  
 _They form a ring around him, drawing in tighter and tighter. Vince flails in panic and almost falls._  
  
 _A hand grips his wrist and pulls him upright again._  
  
 _Vince shudders at the touch; it’s damp and cold. Like dead meat._  
  
 _His rescuer’s un-eyes bore into his own; he can feel its chilly breath on his cheek. Its mouth stretches in a hideous travesty of a smile. The hand that pulled him up now releases him, but only so it can stroke his hair._  
  
 _Another horrible realisation strikes Vince: every one of his zombie captors is bald._  
  
 _The stroking hand is soon joined by more; Vince bats them away. ‘Leave my hair alone, you bastards!’_  
  
 _His voice is lost among theirs; or perhaps he isn’t making any sound anyway. It’s impossible to tell._  
  
 _Vince clamps his hands over his head and tries desperately to carry on walking towards the door. If it even is a door._  
  
 _He has to believe Howard is still out there, still waiting for him._  
  
 _One of the zombies looks down, pointing a bony finger. The others look, too; the sound of their laughter is the most horrible thing Vince has ever heard._  
  
 _Vince looks where they’re looking._  
  
 _Shit._  
  
 _He’s naked._  
  
 _The clothes he was wearing when he came in here have vanished, and thousands of hostile zombies are looking at his bits. And what if they decide to do more than look?_  
  
 _Vince whimpers in terror, and clamps his hands over his genitals instead._  
  
 _The zombies snicker horribly, and turn their attention back to his head._  
  
 _Soon the stroking turns to tugging and pulling: at first uncomfortable, and then painful._  
  
 _Vince is half-way across the room when the first cry of triumph rends the air. One of the zombies is dancing around, grinning maniacally and waving its fist aloft, clutching a clump of black hair._  
  
 _The sight of it rouses the others to a frenzy, fighting each other to get to Vince, clawing and tearing at his raw scalp. He can feel the blood running down his face, mingling with his tears._  
  
 _The light at the far side of the room is gone. Vince is never going to be able to reach Howard, even if Howard is still there... even if Howard was ever there at all._  
  
 _Vince is alone, and he’s never going to get out of here. He’s going to be stuck here forever, bald and hideous, watching Vince after Vince come through that door and have his beautiful hair torn to pieces, until he himself is an undead thing like the others and the only word he knows is his own name._  
  
 _‘Vince... Vince... **Vince**.’_  
  
 _Heavy hands are gripping his shoulders; no matter how he struggles and cries, Vince can’t shake them off._  
  
 _‘Get off me! Get off me! Let me out! Howard! Howard, where are you? Howard – ’_  
  
‘Vince!’  
  
Howard keeps his hands on Vince’s shoulders, steadying him as he wakens from his nightmare and looks wildly around the bedroom.  
  
‘Howard?’ a shaky voice asks.  
  
‘It’s all right, little man, I’m here. You had another bad dream, that’s all. You were yelling the place down.’  
  
Vince struggles free of Howard’s grip and lifts one hand as though to tidy his hair; then hesitates. ‘Mirror,’ he croaks, ‘I need a mirror, don’t wanna touch it, in case it’s...’  
  
‘In case it’s what?’  
  
‘Just get me a mirror.’ Vince is white-faced, his forehead beaded with sweat. ‘ _Mirror_ , Howard, I need to see.’  
  
He seems only half awake, and the request makes no sense, but Howard fetches the hand mirror from the top of the pile on Vince’s dressing table, and clicks the bedside light on.  
  
‘There you go, you see, it hasn’t turned blue or anything.’  
  
Vince sits up and peers into the mirror, wide-eyed. ‘It’s still there.’  
  
‘You sound surprised.’  
  
‘I thought they’d –’ Vince runs a trembling hand through his tangled, damp locks. ‘I thought it had gone.’  
  
‘Well, it definitely hasn’t.’  
  
‘Thank fuck.’ Vince puts the mirror down, and slumps back against the pillows. ‘It looks horrible though. I’m sorry you had to see it like this.’  
  
‘Doesn’t bother me.’ Howard sits down on the edge of the bed, and smiles at Vince in what he hopes is a reassuring way. ‘It’s just got a bit rumpled, that’s all.  I’ll sort it out for you, if you like.’  
  
Vince snorts. ‘You? What do you know about sorting out hair? I’m the one that sorts out your hair, not the other way round.’  
  
‘Ah, but I’ve made a lifetime study of your hair.’ Howard picks up a comb from the bedside table. ‘Lean forward, then I can reach the back as well.’  
  
Vince looks dubious.  
  
‘You’ll feel better when your hair looks all right,’ Howard tells him. ‘You know you always do.’  
  
‘S’pose so,’ Vince mumbles, and tilts his head forward.  
  
Howard takes this as a ‘yes’, and sets to work. It’s not easy to get the comb through Vince’s hair without snagging on the tangles; Howard is as gentle as he can possibly be, wincing and murmuring an apology every time the comb catches on another knot and makes Vince squeak and flinch.  
  
‘That’s enough,’ Vince says, long before Howard’s had enough; he doesn’t often get to do more with Vince’s hair than study it from a distance.  
  
Howard runs the comb through Vince’s back hair one more time, and picks up the mirror again. ‘There you go, how’s that?’  
  
‘It’s OK,’ Vince mutters, not looking at Howard.  
  
Howard pats him on the shoulder. ‘No need to be embarrassed, Vince, I’ve seen you in much worse states than this. Take it from me, you look fine now. Nobody would ever know.’  
  
‘Cheers, Howard.’ Vince does look up then, but he can only meet Howard’s eyes for a second. ‘I do – I do feel a bit better now.’ He shivers suddenly.  
  
‘Get back under the covers.’ Howard pulls the duvet straight; plumps the pillows; settles Vince comfortably. ‘I’ll go and make some nice hot cocoa, yeah?’  
  
‘No!’ Vince sits bolt upright again. ‘No, Howard, don’t leave me.’  
  
‘I’m only going to the kitchen, I’ll be five minutes, that’s all. You need something hot. Help you sleep.’  
  
Vince grabs Howard’s arm, gabbling in panic. ‘Please, I can’t, don’t need cocoa, need you.’  His eyes are wide and full of a very real fear. ‘Please stay with me while I go back to sleep. I’m scared, Howard. I’m scared I might dream the same dream.’  
  
‘Alright.’ Howard un-clamps Vince’s hand, one sweaty finger at a time. ‘I’ll stay.’  
  
‘Promise?’  
  
‘I promise.’  
  
Vince heaves a huge sigh, and wriggles down under the bedclothes.  
  
Howard sits down on the bed again, suddenly aware that his own hands and feet are uncomfortably cold. ‘Listen, Vince, can I just go and get a dressing gown? It’s not that warm in here.’  
  
Vince shakes his head vehemently. ‘You  _promised_.’  
  
‘So I did.’ Howard sighs, and puts his hands in his pyjama pockets. It doesn’t help very much.  
  
‘Howard.’  
  
‘What?’  
  
 ‘You don’t have to freeze, you know. It’s a double bed, after all.’  
  
Howard hesitates, but his feet aren’t getting any warmer, so he turns out the light, climbs into the very edge of Vince’s bed and stretches out gingerly, flat on his back, careful not to touch anything.  
  
His hand touches... something.  
  
He pulls it hastily away, and Vince shudders. ‘Blimey, you weren’t kidding, you’re like a dead fish... Here, I’ll move over and you go where I was.’  
  
Howard shuffles into the middle of the bed, grateful for the warmth; he folds his arms across his stomach and tries not to think about the way the bedclothes smell of Vince, or the fact that whatever it was he touched just now, it was completely bare.  
  
He’s not really sure how he feels about that.  
  
 ‘Thanks Vince, I’ll be fine now. Goodnight.’  
  
‘G’night, Howard.’  
  
Howard’s extremities take a while to thaw, but even when they’re toasty-warm he can’t get to sleep: he can tell that Vince is still awake too.  
  
  
‘Dream still bothering you?’ Howard asks quietly, hearing Vince sigh and fidget for the umpteenth time. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’  
  
‘Not really,’ Vince mutters.  
  
Howard reaches for Vince’s hand in the darkness. ‘Don’t worry, little man, if anyone wants to mess with your hair they’ll have to get past me first. I’ll come at them like a hail of northern bullets, yessir. They won’t harm a hair of your head while Howard Moon’s there to stop them.’  
  
‘Thanks.’ Vince sounds wavery and scared.  
  
Howard squeezes his hand. ‘It’s all right. Vince, I know having your hair stolen was scary, but –’  
  
‘That’s not what scared me.’  
  
‘Then what –’  
  
 _‘You weren’t there.’_  Vince’s voice cracks: the desolate wail of an abandoned child. Next moment Vince flings his arms round Howard, buries his face in Howard’s neck and sobs and sobs.  
  
Howard is appalled by all the tears and snot and sweat, and somewhat unprepared for such full-on bodily contact (or for his own bodily reaction to it), but Vince’s need for comfort is so overwhelming, Howard has no choice but to hold him tight, pat him on the back and murmur vague soothing noises into his ear until the worst is over.  
  
‘Sorry,’ Vince mumbles at last, lifting his wet face from Howard’s shoulder.  
  
‘It’s all right.’  
  
Vince shakes his head, and rolls onto his back. ‘Didn’t know I was gonna do that.’ He sniffs; scrubs at his eyes with his hand. ‘An’ I made you all damp.’  
  
‘Doesn’t matter. It’ll wash out.’ Howard strips off his pyjama jacket and hands it over. ‘Here, you might as well use this as a hankie while you’re at it. That’s about all it’s fit for.’  
  
‘Cheers.’ Vince wipes his face, and lies quiet, with the jacket still covering his eyes.  
  
‘So  _that’s_  what this is about,’ Howard says, more to himself than to Vince. ‘Denmark.’  
  
Vince blows his nose noisily, and stuffs the pyjama top under his pillow. ‘S’pose so, yeah.’  
  
Denmark. Of course that’s what this is about. Denmark was the big rift, the one that all their other petty scraps and arguments had been leading up to: the trip Howard really, really hadn’t intended coming back from.  
  
Wouldn’t have come back from, if Jurgen Haabermaaster’s latest ‘project’ had turned out to be an actual serious film.  
  
And if Naboo hadn’t written three times a week threatening to turn Howard permanently into an angry crab if he didn’t come home and sort Vince out.  
  
Howard came home, but three months later he still doesn’t seem to have done a very good job of the sorting-out. He’s never really known where to start. Much easier just to sweep it all under the carpet and pretend it didn’t happen...  
  
‘Howard, say something,’ Vince pleads.  
  
Howard heaves a sigh. ‘What can I say, Vince? I could say sorry but that hardly begins to cover it. I could say I promise never to leave again, but you wouldn’t believe me. I could say... ’  
  
‘What you said in the Arctic?’  
  
‘And have you laugh at me again? I don’t think so.’  
  
‘I wouldn’t laugh,’ Vince whispers.  
  
‘I still wouldn’t say it. I couldn’t guarantee it would be true.’  
  
‘It  _is_  true.’ Vince grabs Howard’s hand before Howard has time to move away. ‘It is true, Howard, I know it is.’  
  
Howard shakes his head. ‘What evidence do you have for that? How can you possibly know –’  
  
How can Vince possibly know something that Howard’s not certain of himself?  
  
‘You’re in my bed, for a start.’  
  
‘Because I promised to stay with you till you went to sleep. And my feet were cold.’  
  
‘Still evidence. If you didn’t give a toss you would’ve made me cocoa and gone away.’  
  
‘It’s not enough.’  
  
Vince rolls onto his side, facing Howard. ‘You came back. You came back instead of being a bin-man, and you came back from Denmark instead of being a filmstar.’  
  
‘I live here. Being a bin-man made my back ache. I don’t like Danish pastries... and it was obvious after about two days that I wasn’t going to be a filmstar.’  
  
‘And you shrank yourself and went in me in a submarine to get the jazz virus even though I ate your record.’  
  
‘Naboo talked me into it. He can be very persuasive.’  
  
‘You snogged me on the roof.’  
  
‘Your life was in danger from a nutter with a sword, remember?’  
  
‘What about this, then?’ Vince slides a hand down Howard’s front and cups him, through his pyjama trousers. ‘Exhibit A.’  
  
‘Inadmissible,’ Howard gasps, twisting away. ‘That... It’s just... It doesn’t mean anything.’  
  
‘Is that so.’ Vince’s voice is waspish; he reaches for Howard again.  
  
‘Vince, don’t, don’t touch me...’  
  
‘ _Fuck_  that.’ Vince props himself on one elbow and kisses Howard, a hard, bruising, angry kiss. Sharp teeth catch on Howard’s lip, drawing blood.  
  
Howard’s hands tangle into Vince’s hair completely of their own accord. With a muffled squawk of protest, Vince tries to pull away, but Howard holds him firm, giving as good as he gets, until the kiss is no longer an argument but more of a conversation.  
  
When they finally break apart, Howard’s face is wet with tears: Vince’s, and his own.  
  
‘It  _is_  true,’ Vince whispers.  
  
‘Stubborn to the last.’ Howard kisses him again, gently. ‘You never give up, do you?’  
  
‘Not when I know I’m right. An’ I never gave up on you, Howard. Never have, never will.’  
  
‘Vince...’ And Howard finds himself saying all those things he thought he’d never say, apologies and promises and feelings all mixed up and spilling out of him in a torrent of hoarse and stammering words.  
  
‘I know, Howard. I know.’ Vince strokes Howard’s hair. ‘I love you too. It’s alright. It’s gonna be alright... Here, I think there’s a dry bit left on your pyjama top.’  
  
When Howard has finished blowing his nose and drying his face, Vince reaches for Howard’s aching erection, inside his pyjamas this time, and Howard doesn’t – can’t – resist as he struggles out of his trousers and surrenders to the extraordinary feeling of Vince’s hands exploring him, teasing him, caressing him...  
  
Loving him.  
  
‘Vince, you’re going to have to stop... That is, I’m... I can’t stop it...’  
  
‘You don’t have to.’ Vince giggles suddenly. 'That pyjama jacket’s had it anyway, remember?'  
  
‘There’s – the trousers too –’ Howard gasps, and he thinks he hears Vince say something like ‘save those for me’ but there are too many other sensations going on at the same time for Howard to be entirely clear.  
  
‘Fuck it,’ Vince says again, but without anger; ‘fuck it, I’m gonna come when you do... Touch me, Howard. Please...’  
  
Howard just about has time to wrap his hand cautiously around Vince’s hardness before the world goes bright and both of them are coming.  
  
Vince snuggles close and goes to sleep as soon as Howard has finished cleaning them both up and putting his now redundant pyjamas in the laundry basket.  
  
Howard knows he should move, or he’ll wake in an hour or two with pins-and-needles in his arm and drool on his shoulder, but it seems a shame to disturb Vince before he has to. Something tells him that this is the best and deepest sleep Vince has had in some while.  
  
He kisses Vince on the forehead, smooths a stray bit of hair, and lets him sleep on.  
  
  
 _All heads turn towards the doorway when Vince and Howard enter the room._  
  
 _Vince primps his immaculate hair; he waves and smiles._  
  
 _The crowd surges forwards, hands outstretched._  
  
 _But they can’t touch him._  
  
 _Not this time._  
  
 _They fade away like ghosts as Vince and Howard walk together towards the light._

**Author's Note:**

> The Zombie Apocalypse Nightmare Fic. Written in response to [this tumblr post](http://nemeton.tumblr.com/post/80077776192/peacockbluey-thefirewithallthestrengthithath).


End file.
